Under the Rain
by LadyNorthernLion
Summary: The war is over, and everyone has moved on. Everyone, that is, except for the people most instrumental in the war’s ending. Severus Snape is a shell of a man, and Hermione Granger is caught between the Muggle and Magical worlds alone in both. Non HBP com
1. Chapter 1

**Under the Rain**

**Chapter One: A Living Death**

_Author's Note/Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. I do not intend to make any money from the following work._

_Rating is for later chapters. The romance will come, but slowly._

_This is the first fic I've wrote in a couple years. Be honest, be blunt - any feedback is more than welcome._

It was raining again. In the dark confines of the narrow bedroom, the sound of the rain hitting the lone window was enough to jolt the man inside out of a fitful sleep. An emaciated hand reached instinctively for the wand under his pillow, and it was only when a hoarsely whispered "_Lumos_" lit the room that he relaxed. A careful flick checked the wards surrounding the house, and satisfied with their integrity he arose from his bed.

Those who had known him during his time at Hogwarts would no longer recognize him. His previously long, if somewhat greasy hair was clipped to mere centimeters in length, and his face was deeply lined. He had lost weight, and the effort it took for him to rise out of the bed had winded him, forcing the formerly powerful man to lean against his dressing table, gasping for breath. He was pathetic looking, and aware of that fact. With Dumbledore gone, he received no visitors, and went out of the house only a few times a year. At first, after the war ended, he had received some acclaim - and suspicion, as well. The Ministry was split over sending him to Azkaban or tossing him a medal. Somewhere in the argument, he'd simply slipped away, alone with his memories and the marks on his flesh. Isolating himself in a small Victorian house in a run-down, mixed Muggle and Wizarding section of London, Severus Snape had become a man balancing on the brink of lifelessness.

The war had ended and all around him, people had begun building lives. None of these involved him, and anyone who tried was simply ignored. He'd received occasional notes from the Hogwarts staff for about a year, each note catching him up on this or that person's plans and achievements. Who was in St. Mungo's, who had managed not to go insane - and even those who had managed to go on to the beginnings of normal, healthy lives. The notes often expressed the desire, however hidden, that he return to the school to teach. Minerva, acting as Headmistress, had even sent him an application for the Defense job. He hadn't taken the bait… hadn't even read the note until after the term was well underway.

After all, he was a man who enjoyed his silence, just as he was a man who would do little more than pollute society.

With a mighty effort, Snape made his way out of his bedroom, using the loo and hobbling down the stairs. Cold coffee from the pot on the counter and a handful of cold cereal served as his meal, despite the lack of hunger he felt. It wouldn't do any good to die, even as it didn't do any good to live. The rain was beating steadily upon the roof and windows of his house, and the back garden, surrounded by high stone walls and sheltered by ancient, enormous trees looked as though it was considering transformation into a pond.

Another house backed his, their gardens connected by a small, rusty iron gate. Vegetation of the magical variety had grown up on either side of the gate, turning it into a solid mass of green. The house stood empty, and even more run-down than his own. Broken windows, rotting shingles and roofing – the building itself lacked even a front door. The state of the once-grand house was only tolerated because of the Muggle-repelling charms which surrounded the place. It seemed that he was the only inhabitant that noticed the house at all.


	2. Chapter Two:Into the Light

**Under the Rain**

**Chapter Two: Into the Daylight**

_A/N: Thanks to everyone for the great reviews – On Ashwinder, I've tried to respond to most of them – for those reading this on let me just say that I'm glad that this is getting readership, and I hope that you all like my characterization of Hermione as much as everyone seems to have liked my characterization of Snape. I've tried to make this chapter a bit longer than the first._

_The Harry Potter Lexicon has been a HUGE help to me in charting this out._

_**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all characters and settings recognizable from those books belong to J.K. Rowling. No profit is to be made from this work, and I am not claiming anything recognizable as my own._

A woman clad in a black sweatshirt and loose-fitting jeans sat on the steps of 18 Bogs End St. London at about half past noon, smoking a cigarette and getting drenched by the rain in the process. Passers-by would put her age at her mid-thirties, and would have been shocked to hear that she was only in her twenties. Her face was still smooth, but lines had taken root at the corners of her eyes. Her hair, naturally brown, was streaked with gray and dull, as if the youth had been sucked away.

The woman matched the house well. Sagging was the word for it, as if it some unknown force was weighing it down. The bricks were faded and cracked, and none of the windows had glass in them. It looked as though it had been abandoned for most of the time it had stood.

Sighing, Hermione flicked her cigarette into the street and stood, entering the house – her house. A few whispered spells and the door righted itself, and the floor shook a bit, holes closing in. Dust swirled around her, and she shut her eyes tightly against it. This was her home, and she was determined to make it at least safe to stand in. After all, Abigail would be coming over in just a week's time to check up on her, and she'd rather have this project to work on than end up back in St. Mungo's, or worse, her mother's kitchen.

Swishing her wand and muttering under her breath, she walked around the house, patching what absolutely needed to be patched. The stairs, or what would have been a staircase at one point, were her major worry. Gathering bits of broken brick, stones, and some moldering furniture she transfigured a narrow wooden staircase, and made her way up it, sweat pouring off her.

By nightfall Hermione had made major improvements to the house, although the exterior remained in the same miserable condition. She'd charmed the windows to appear broken out despite the new glass in them, a precaution to discourage investigation of the house. Balanced on the window sill in her bedroom, she stared out at the back garden, a thought of Neville, and a recent therapy session, flitting through her mind, and a recent therapy session.

"It wont do them any good to dwell on them, dearie" Abigail had lectured her only a few days ago.

"I can't help myself – using Harry's galleons for this house just seems … wrong, without him and Ron to move in with me, like we'd planned. It feels like they're following me around and sometimes…" she'd faltered, embarrassed.

Abigail had just stared at her, her gray eyes focusing, as it always felt, on the tip of Hermione's nose. She didn't pressure the younger woman to speak, just waited her out.

Finally, Hermione had managed "Sometimes I hear them, teasing me or telling me to put down my book and come out into the daylight… and I look around, and they aren't there."

That statement had taken nearly two years to come out, and she wished she could take it back the moment she said it. Her two best friends were dead, and Neville was dead, and Pavarti and Lavender and Seamus… every Gryfindor in her year was gone, except for her. Too smart to fight face to face Granger, who'd sat in an attic room for the duration of the war, making calculations which had cost every single one of her friends their lives.

She'd had little to no communication with any of them, just sealed secrets delivered by owl in the middle of the night; provided with food and supplies and books, she only saw others once every few months. She received letters telling her how well she was doing, but never once received anything that told her more about the war than she needed for the next calculation. Names were blacked out, until all that she knew of her friends was that they were fighting, and that those with specializations were locked up in secure locations just as she was. Hermione hadn't even known where she was.

She'd been released just after the battle which took the lives of both Voldemort and the Boy Who Didn't Live. She'd read the report – a Death Eater, seeing his Master fall, had come up behind Harry and, rather than hexing him, had stabbed him to death before taking his own life. Harry had been the last of her friends to die. She hadn't seen any of it in action, just the aftermath, just the bodies littering the hard dirt.

After the war she'd been offered jobs by the Ministry and private companies – she hadn't stayed at any of them for longer than a week, and it soon became word that to hire Hermione Granger was perhaps the stupidest and most dangerous thing possible. She talked to herself, she warded her office against everyone and everything, even owls – she'd even hexed one of her bosses, sending him to the hospital for a month.

She'd fled to her parent's house, and hid there for the past few years. Minerva had eventually asked Hermione, in a rare letter, to drop in on a friend – Abigail Maseten. Abigail had very quietly told Hermione, accompanied by her mother, that she was a therapist, and a Squib. She asked Hermione to come see her a few times a week, for a cuppa and a chat. Shocking everyone, Hermione had gone.

Abigail had saved her life – but Hermione wasn't sure it was worth saving. The isolation and guilt that riddled and haunted her from the war days had made her into an entirely different woman. She was secure in her abilities – but she didn't want to use them. She knew that her talents and intelligence set her apart, and she no longer cared.

With a low growl in her throat, Hermione shook her head and crawled into bed, downing a potion as she did. Sleep was necessary, whether she wanted it or not.


	3. Old Problems, Greetings

1**Chapter Three**

**Old Problems, Greetings, Salutations, and Revelations**

_**Disclaimer:** No profit is being made from this work. I do not own Harry Potter – JKR does. _

_**Authors Note:** I apologize for the lack of update – my Uncle died unexpectedly soon after posting the second chapter of this story; dealing with death, when it has so recently hit home, is somewhat… difficult. Perhaps, in time, the writing of this will get easier. _

The wind had finally subsided, and with it the rain. Snape sat quietly in a moldering chair in front of his fireplace with a glass of Fire-whiskey when the flames swirled green.

"Minerva McGonagall for Severus Snape," a voice called out to him.

With a wave of his hand, Snape allowed the call to come, and Minerva's head popped into the fire.

"Severus, how good of you to answer. I was worried I might wake you," Minerva greeted him, taking a breath before continuing. "I'm going to be in your area tomorrow with an old friend of mine, and we'd like to drop by." Without waiting for his reply, she finished quickly, "We'll arrive sometime around five. Please make sure the wards don't kill us".

With that, her head was gone, and Snape was left not entirely sure whether he had heard her clearly or not. The last thing he needed was the meddling influence of a couple old bats in his life. With a groan, he chucked his glass at the fire and tossed down the contents of a small vial sitting

next to him. Within moments Severus Snape was asleep, if unwillingly.

---

The next morning, Minerva McGonagall and Abigail Maseten stood outside 18 Bogs End St., looking with some concern at the house Hermione had purchased. The house had not changed in appearance, at least from the outside, since the two women had taken a look at it a month before.

Abigail spoke first. "While it doesn't look appealing from the outside, perhaps Hermione has made an effort to improve the interior. After all, she knows the importance of this project, and the consequences for failing."

"I wonder if we have been so wise in forcing her into this – she never would have stood this sort of bullying, when she was younger." Minerva voiced her concern quietly.

"She'll get through it – she doesn't have a choice. I've made sure of that," Abigail muttered just as the door of the house flew open.

"Abigail! Professor! Come in, I've got tea set out!" Hermione was determined to be cheerful, and her face showed it.

The two women walked up the stairs and into the house, where they followed Hermione into a narrow parlor. The small room glowed with noontime sunlight, lighting on

the maroon and gold covered chairs and small oak table that dominated it. As Minerva and Abigail surveyed the room quietly, Hermione busied herself with fixing the tea tray set out on the table. After a few moments of

silence, the three women seated themselves, effectively sandwiching the young witch between the two older women.

"The place looks splendid, Miss Granger." Minerva was the first to break the silence.

Abigail was quick to fill in,. "I see you've stuck to your House colors," she said as she smiled encouragingly at Hermione. Hermione, in return, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, aware that a barrage of part sentimental, part therapy-aimed comments was sure to follow. When none did, she politely asked after the Hogwarts staff, and a few moments were filled with gossip from her former school, and sipping tea. With her belief that Fillius Filtwick was gay permanently secured in her mind, the conversation quite unexpectedly turned to Severus Snape.

"I had a chat with Severus last night, Abigail – I told him to be expecting us this afternoon," Minerva casually dropped in.

Hermione looked quickly between the two older women

, and Abigail hesitated, a brief look of panic flashing on the therapist's face. Severus Snape had come up in her talks with Hermione many times, usually changing the girl's tone from forlorn to acerbic in a matter of seconds. Hermione had never really gotten over Dumbledore's death, and had blamed Snape for the deed even after he had been cleared of all charges by the Ministry. The death of an authority figure, followed so soon after by the deaths of almost all those she held dear, had undone the girl. At the heart of all her anger and fear sat Snape. Despite, or perhaps because of this, Hermione had denied all of Abigail's attempts to discuss the former Professor's role in her life.

"Severus is… nearby?" Hermione questioned almost casually.

The two older women exchanged glances, and a silence filled the room. After a few moments – which seemed like an eternity to the young witch – Minerva spoke.

"He lives around the corner, dear – as he has since the end of the war. I suspect that, in preparation for our visit, he has been less accommodating than you have." She looked carefully at Abigail over Hermione's head, a worried expression on her face. Quickly smiling down at Hermione, she shrugged. "You couldn't have known, dear… after all, we didn't realize that the two of you would be living quite so near one another."

Hermione blinked, and looked at Minerva. "Perhaps you should have warned me, _Proffessor_, that I was moving in near a war criminal," she replied, her voice shaking. Touching the tea pot with a measured gesture, she looked at Abigail and said, "The tea's gone cold. Perhaps this is the time for our visit to end."

"Hermione…" Abigail started, but Minerva simply nodded and placed her hand on the other woman's arm

"It's time to go. Hermione, it's been a pleasure. Please keep in touch." Minerva gently pulled Abigail out of her seat, and the two women left, their steps echoing through the house.


	4. Tea and Troubles

**Chapter Four: Tea and Troubles**

**Disclaimer: Characters in this story belong to J.K. Rowling and her associates (With the exception of Abigail), as does anything else you recognize. No money is being made from this work.**

_Author's Note: This chapter signals the near-end of this story. I'm estimating (and outlining) two more chapters. This is also the longest chapter so far. This story has been through two beta readers, the pile of "Oh, I don't really feel like writing you anymore" stories I have, and three major US holidays. I fully intend to finish it. **However**, begging for more chapters, longer chapters, or quicker updates, while flattering, is absolutely pointless. I always appreciate a review, but leaving both a review and, for instance, sending me an email or 'pm' is more of a hindrance than an encouragement. _

After Minerva and Abigail left, Hermione sat very still in her chair staring at the tea pot. She heard them walk down the hallway, the sound of the door opening and shutting quietly. Only when she was absolutely sure that they had gone did she allow herself to react honestly to the news that she was living near Snape.

"The bastard!" she half whispered, half shouted. The sound came back at her from all sides, bounding off the stillness of the house. She was cold all the sudden, shivering violently, and she was back in the small room in an undisclosed location.

She had written furiously until her hand, numb from the cold, had to be soaked in witch-hazel and thawed out. Cracks had formed along her fingers, cracks which slowly opened into sores, and had to be healed by the girl herself. It would compromise her location, she had been told, to have visitors. She had not bothered to ask for a mediwitch after that.

The one visitor she'd been allowed to have, other than Dumbledore, was Snape. He'd been the one who, after walking in on Hermione in the middle of the night, had demanded to be referred to as something other than Professor. She'd been bitter at this point, but a bit of her innocence had hung on.

She'd been thrilled to have the visitor, even if it was Snape. That was what she'd settled on calling him -- Mr. Snape had seemed a mockery of the classroom setting, and Severus had been much too personal.

He called her, depending on how involved the conversation, either Granger or, just a few times, Hermione.

Her given name had never been such a welcome sound as it had coming from the lips of even one of her most hated former Professors, for it had been nearing the four month mark of her confinement the first time he'd used it.

He never stayed for more than an hour on these visits, and always came at the juncture between night and day, just a few hours before dawn. Sometimes there were weeks, even a month or so in-between them.

He stopped coming quite suddenly, and Professor Dumbledore had appeared in her room one afternoon with the type of books Snape typically brought for her.

She remembered what he had told her, word for word, to this day. The words sometimes echoed through her mind.

"Miss Granger, I have grave news for you. Severus... is no longer with us, in this war. He's disappeared, most likely dead. There is, however, the possibility that he has switched sides. Please discover all you can about this through your studies."

Dumbledore had then done something most unusual, and simply left.

Snape was now living near her -- she couldn't help but wonder just how near her. The tea pot grew bleary as her eyes, stinging from tears, grew heavy. Sleep ... just a little of it, was what she needed. She'd just had a shock, and as she climbed the stairs to bed, she was convinced that Abigail wouldn't dare say anything to her, even if it was the middle of the day.

A nap was not a sign of depression -- she was sure of that.

* * *

Just after tea a sharp knock resounded off the moldering walls of a shabby house. The owner of the house rose out of his chair and went down the hall, waiting for another knock before flinging the door open.

"Minerva," the man said, moving slightly to the side, "I didn't know you were bringing a guest."

The guest in question had the audacity to smile at him. Minerva proved to be more sensible, and simply glared at him.

Severus led the two women through the house silently, gesturing to a small grouping of chairs gathered around a small round table. There was a moment of silence as they all took seats - Severus pulling his chair away just slightly, as if direct contact with either of them would be dangerous. Minerva made a few inane comments and asked the basic polite questions. He assured her that he was fine, the house was fine, the weather was horrid, and yes, he still drank coffee.

Through it all Abigail stared at him, her lips slightly pursed. Severus caught her eye and felt like he was being interrogated by an extremely polite execution squad.

"You'll be pleased to know that I've yet to find a suitable, long-term person to fill either the Defense Against the Dark Arts or Potions position, Severus," Minerva was now informing him. "Are you positive you won't come back, at least for a term?"

He shook his head. "I've told you - I'm done with teaching. While I may be considered a war hero, I doubt that the parents of your little brats truly want Severus Snape teaching at Hogwarts again."

"Severus..." she began.

"No, Minerva, you know my stand on this and I will not go over it again. I shall never return to Hogwarts," he stated firmly.

"Severus, do you remember Hermione Granger?" Abigail asked him quietly.

"Yes - how is she now? Reaping the fame of helping bring down the Dark Lord while trying to make some gigantic discovery that will change the world?" His voice was snide and strangely thick.

"The two of you have more in common than I would have ever expected when she was a student, Severus - no, she is not living up to her potential, but rather living in a dilapidated house with no company, no companionship, and almost no will to live. Do not be such a fool as to assume that you were the only one the war drove to solitude." Minerva looked at him over her glasses, obviously disapproving.

Abigail continued, in a more gentle tone than Minvera had used, "I suspect that the two of you have unfinished business, Severus, and I would encourage you to get in touch with her. If you'll allow me, I'll give you her address, and perhaps you could send her an owl, or invite her over."

Severus went pale at the suggestion. After a moment, he nodded. "Perhaps I shall," he replied, looking Abigail in the eye. A slip of parchment found its way to the table, and with quiet goodbyes the two women made their way out of his home.

The day wore on, as Severus picked up the parchment and ran his eyes over the words - once, twice - Hermione Granger was just around the corner, just through his garden.

He wondered if she knew.


End file.
